Skiing in Jackson Hole: more than just dudes and danger

My friend, an accomplished skier, is familiar with my own eternally plateaued status. He couldn’t hide his bitterness on hearing I was heading to the hallowed slopes, bowls and backcountry trails of the renowned Wyoming resort.

I agreed with him: chances were it would be wasted on me. I’ve skied for years. I’m passionate about it and feel deep pity for people who have never savoured the pristine magic of mountains in winter.

But while competent on skis, I’m not particularly adventurous. I’m happy to cruise pistes of whatever hue, and will tackle bumps with a certain oomph. But I’ve no great appetite for the unknown and unexpected challenges of off-piste, of virgin snow fields, or of zipping through the tree line. Not least because most of my skiing has been in Europe and rarely are conditions conducive to a good off-piste experience.

And that is what Jackson Hole is all about (or so I believed). Wispy-bearded high-fivin’ dudes flock there in search of sheer drops, jagged cliffs and crafty couloirs from which to launch themselves skywards, knowing there is more than three feet of the finest, softest, “cowboy” powder below to cushion them. It’s not for me.

Amangani resort

Nor am I a fan of skiing in the United States. Such a long haul, and for what? The east coast has wet snow and short, steep, icy runs. Head west and Colorado delivers an irritatingly sanitised version of the sport: overzealous ski patrols, instructors with rictus smiles, and staff in the (self-service) mountain restaurants who think it not the least impertinent to inquire in loud, accusatory tones whether that’s “your SECOND beer, sir/ma’am’’ and “Are you intending to ski this afternoon?’’

There’s the jet lag, and après-ski is lacklustre: if you want dinner out after 9pm, forget it. It makes me yearn for the surly Austrian lift attendant, some malodorous, queue-jumping French, and a roistering Russian or two, for the colour and atmosphere they lend to resorts closer to home.

So why did I go? One of my favourite books when I was a child was My Friend Flicka, the story of a boy and his beloved sorrel filly on Goose Bar Ranch in Wyoming. Ever since, this vast, far-flung “Big Sky” state of peaks and valleys, wilderness and wildlife, thunderheads and lightning strikes has exerted a siren call.

And there’s the Ford Factor, too. Harrison Ford. He has an 800-acre ranch near the town of Jackson, and I know it’s sad but the chance of spotting Han Solo, in the (wrinkly) flesh, seemed too good to miss. He’s known to do his own shopping locally – a keen carpenter, he buys a lot of nails, apparently – and keeps his Bell 407 aircraft at Jackson’s dinky little airport with its welcome arch constructed from discarded elk antl ers.

Harrison Ford owns an 800-acre ranch near Jackson

I resisted the temptation to Google the location of the hardware stores in Jackson with a view to staking them out. And in the bars and restaurants, on the chair lift, in the gondola or riding the tram to the summit, I kept my scrutiny of the clientele – on the off-chance Solo was there, and preferably solo, minus his waif, I mean wife, Calista Flockhart (Ally McBeal) – to a minimum.

But in the end it was the snow (fabulous and forgiving and at least 475 inches of it every year) and the mountains that beguiled. The Teton Range – teton meaning “teat”– which forms the western ramparts of the Jackson Hole valley was so named by French fur trappers in tribute to female breasts (they hadn’t seen any for a while, presumably).

Ski lodge at the Four Seasons in Jackson Hole

American Indian legend has it that these brooding peaks are at the centre of a wheel of sacred sites that “quietly insist you visit them – then try to make you stay’’, according to Amely Greeven, an American writer who swapped a glamorous life in LA for a forest cabin in Wyoming. “I’ve never been to a place where so many people, of all different backgrounds, describe their coming here as choice-less,’’ she writes.

Most of the dudes would agree; the mountains drew them here and here they stay, manning the lifts, working tables, doing time as shop assistants or bell boys: polite, enthusiastic and conversing in jargon incomprehensible to civilians. (If, as it is claimed, Eskimos have 52 words for snow, then the dudes run them a close second: depending on its consistency snow can be “frozen chunder”, “mashed potato”, “corn” or “death cookies” et cetera). Every one of them is counting down the seconds until their shift is over and they’re free to head off up to the notorious Colbert’s Couloir, a gully accessed by a 4m (13ft) jump and nifty turn on landing that some claim to be North America’s “scariest slope’’ (I peeked over the edge and felt immediately nauseous), or the thigh-burning off-piste itineraries of The Hobacks.

But the dudes have had to get used to sharing at least part of their territory. Jackson Hole Mountain Resort, privately owned by the Kemmerer family since 1992, has been busily transforming itself into a family-friendly venue that welcomes and indulges beginners and skiers of every age and ability.

Its two mountains, Apres Vous (2,585m) and Rendezvous (3,185m), have been developed to offer the intermediate skier in particular an intoxicating variety of runs. One can cruise unthinkingly, challenge oneself relentlessly, or simply stand and stare, taking in the icy, pine-fragranced air and a panoramic view of the valley floor across which the Snake River dances, silvery and sinuous, to a date with the Colorado River hundreds of miles away.

This season marks a further development in broadening Jackson Hole’s appeal, with the introduction of a high-speed four-passenger chair lift that has expanded the trail network in and around the Casper Bowl area that nestles between the two peaks, boosting access and area for the non-expert skier still further.

Teton Village maintains its "frontier" character

Down below, Teton Village, once little more than a functional base station facilitating the powder-hounds, has morphed into a classic resort destination while retaining the “frontier” character that makes skiing here something out of the ordinary. There is a selection of ski in/ski out accommodation, from the discreet luxury of the Four Seasons Hotel to self-catering condos and basic lodge-style rooms. Restaurant options range from the fine dining of the Couloir Restaurant (at the top of the Bridger Gondola) to the heaped plates of frighteningly calorific fare at the hugely popular Mangy Moose.

The town of Jackson (population less than 10,000) is a 20-minute car/bus ride away, but it’s worth trading the convenience of a slope-side base, for a couple of nights at least, for the “cowboy” experience at The Wort Hotel, a former stagecoach inn next to the town square where you feel Wyatt Earp might wander in at any moment. Its Silver Dollar Bar and Grill – there are 300 silver dollars inlaid into the woodwork – provided, courtesy of chef Scott Rutter’s “mountain eclectic cuisine”, probably the best meal I’ve ever eaten Stateside.

A minute’s walk away, the infamous Million Dollar Cowboy Bar is proof that après-ski is alive and bronco-bucking, and a rival to the wildest hostelries that European resorts can offer. This is, after all, the town that regularly stages the Gelande Quaffing regional “quaffifiers’’ – a “sport” in which one member of a team (in drag) waits at the end of a bar for a team-mate (also in drag) to slide a mug of beer down to him. His task is to catch the beer and “pound” (drink) it. (A tweed-jacketed friend of mine took one look around the room, heaving with bald heads, luxuriant facial hair and checked shirts of every shade, and pronounced quietly, “It’s Downton meets Deliverance’’.) Indeed. How many bars boast a snarling bear and stalking timber wolf (both stuffed) as features?

If that sounds like a night out from hell, then the Amangani may be more to your taste, a chic establishment with a Zen-like ambience, perched on a small crest outside town, where every suite has floor-to-ceiling windows, ensuring wonderful views and sunsets in particular, from the bath, bed and even the loo.

So no longer is Jackson Hole Dude Central. My experience has forced me to reconsider skiing in America. Is the tedious nine-hour flight (plus connections) worth it? Absolutely. And as for plane flake – sorry, that’s jet lag in dude-speak – I barely noticed it. With enough welcome glasses of fizz, you tend not to.

It’s a shame I missed Harrison, though – but in the spirit of Star Wars, isn’t that good enough reason for a sequel?

Jackson Hole essentials

British Airways (0844 4930787; ba.com/Dallas) operates a daily service from London Heathrow to Jackson Hole (via Dallas Fort Worth), with onward travel on American Airlines, starting on December 13. Fares start at £717.19 return. A stay at Four Seasons Resort Jackson Hole (fourseasons.com/jacksonhole) starts at £361 per room per night based on two people sharing (including taxes).

A stay at Amangani (amanresorts.com) costs from £499 per suite per night plus 18 per cent tax and service charge, including private transfers from Jackson Hole airport, breakfast, evening wine and charcuterie at the Zinc Bar (price valid until December 19).